


You’ve got to pick a pocket or two to get to Tahiti

by reddeadmort



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 17:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18348389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddeadmort/pseuds/reddeadmort
Summary: Arthur gender neutral teen reader; kid joins the gang, Arthur becomes an over-protective father figure.





	You’ve got to pick a pocket or two to get to Tahiti

As you stood behind the Valentine saloon, leaning against a shed while you watched the other kids squabble over a game of Horseshoes, you thought that maybe this life wasn’t so bad. You had been made an orphan by dysentery two years ago, at the age of 13; you’d initially gone to live with your uncle in Saint-Denis, but the near-daily beatings had forced you to seek refuge elsewhere after only a few months. 

Unsurprisingly for a large city, you weren’t the only kid with nowhere to go, and you quickly had found a small gang willing to look after you and teach you the ropes. You had to pay your way of course, but once you learned how to pick pockets and use lockpicks it was easy.  You worked hard at these skills, and were proud of how good you were, though you were pretty sure your parents wouldn’t have been. 

For the last year or so, life had been pretty good. You always found a roof to sleep under, and didn’t go hungry too often; while the future didn’t exactly look bright, the present wasn’t a complete mess. You were happy, until you’d been told by the leader to steal from the wrong carriage. You’d hopped on to the back, unseen, and made short work of the lockbox. You’d been expecting some bags of jewellery, nice small things you could easily hide away and split between the others kids – 10 kids selling a ring or two at a few different places looks far less suspicious than one kid with a whole bag. Instead, you’d found a pile of documents. 

Flicking through, trying to see if there was any money in any of the envelopes, you had finally paused, concentrating hard as you tried to read one of the letters in your hand. You weren’t too sure what it said, but you could just about read the signature at the bottom; it was from the Mayor’s office. When you had read the recipient’s name, your heart had dropped.  _Angelo Bronte._ Mr Bronte had made it clear he didn’t appreciate any of your lot even looking at him and his men, let alone rooting around in his stuff; you still hadn’t found all the pieces of the last kid that tried to swipe something from his pocket at that party.

You had quickly stuffed the letters back in the box, readying yourself to jump off, as the carriage had quickly turned into the grounds of a large house. One of the guards had seen you almost immediately and grabbed you before you even had a chance to attempt to escape. Angelo himself had gotten a good look at you as he stepped down from the carriage, and instructed the guard to take you to the kitchens. You hadn’t stuck around to find out if he meant to feed you or make you alligator food. You’d bitten the guard holding you hard, then run around the back of the house, slipping through the railings. You’d hidden in the first carriage leaving the city that you could find, and had stayed there until Rhodes. From there, you’d hitched a lift where you could, with or without the driver’s permission. And so you’d ended up in Valentine.  

This little bunch of kids you’d found here were nice; a bit younger than you, which made you the responsible one of the group. This made you uncomfortable, but you’d done your best. You were living in an abandoned shack just beyond the edge of town; you’d have happily camped out under the stars out here when you could, but these kids were softer than you. They all knew each other, runaways from some home in a place called Blackwater. They hadn’t been out here long; you’d tried your best to teach them how to survive, but they were too young to really understand the trouble they were nor be any good at stealing.

Your daydreaming was interrupted by shouts and swearing, and you saw one of the kids sprinting down the alleyway towards you, clutching a large satchel.

“(Y/N), look what I got! Isn’t it great!” The kid held the satchel up to you as you looked up to see what you assumed to be the owner run into the alley. He was huge; tall, built like a brick shithouse. And he was pissed.

“Come here you little bastard!” It was more of a growl than a yell, and he started to run towards you. There was no way you were going to be able to outrun this man, and with the two pistols, knives and rope hanging from his gun belt you knew that wasn’t much point even trying. But you sure as hell weren’t going to let this young kid take the beating that was coming either. Snatching the satchel, you yelled at the others to run as you stood your ground. They scattered, all going in completely different directions; at least they’d learnt something from you, you thought.

You stared directly into the eyes of the man, as his run slowed to a jog and he came to a stop in front of you.

“Give me the satchel, kid.” His voice was low and he muttered through gritted teeth.  “And tell me where the lad that took it went. Me an’ him need to have a little…..discussion.”

“This satchel Sir? I took this satchel from you, I do apologise. I was under the mistaken belief that it belonged to my good friend.” You may struggle to read, but you’d learned a few things from being around all those posh nobs in Saint-Denis. You held out the satchel, and the man took it back carefully. You’d expected him to snatch it; to grab you, to yell at you. Instead, he was staring down at you, frowning slightly.

“It weren’t you kid. And I ain’t about to discipline someone who ain’t done nothin’. Where is he.”

“Who, sir? I don’t see anyone but us here.” You gulped slightly as you said this, realising how true it was; this man could kill you, and no-one would probably even notice. But as you stared back into those blue-green eyes, something told you he wouldn’t.

The man in front of you sighed as he swung his satchel back over his head.

“Kid, how old are you? What’s your name?”

“I’m old enough to know not to give that information out, sir.” You regretted this as soon as you said it, you didn’t want to rile him further. You were relieved when he laughed.

“Fair enough kid, fair enough” he chuckled. “Well, I’m Arthur Morgan. When was the last time you ate? I’d happily buy you some food. You’re a good kid, and you don’t deserve to starve.”

You desperately wanted to take him up on his offer. Valentine was a small town, not many people to pickpocket; and, if you were honest, you were scared of doing so, everyone seemed to be armed. You’d managed to get hold of some scraps from one of the kind ladies in the saloon but had given them to the other kids. But your brain was screaming at you to get the hell out of this situation.

“Nah, I’m good, thanks mister.” The man you now knew as Arthur continued to stare at you, like he was looking for something; then he tucked his hand into his pocket and threw you a few coins.

“Suit yourself. Be careful, kid” he said as he turned and walked away. You watched him as he left; you certainly didn’t think that was how this situation was going to end when you’d seen Arthur thundering towards you.  

The first thing you did was run to the general store and buy as many canned goods you could carry. You’d have to hide them from the others, ration them, but hopefully it would tide you over and take some of the pressure off. As you left, the shop owner closed and locked the door behind you for the evening.

It wasn’t a long walk back to the shack you shared, but you walked slowly, admiring the stars above you. Life might be harder out here, but it sure was a nice place to be. Your contentment was shattered when you heard screaming and crying from the shack ahead of you. Ducking behind a rock, you looked out only to see the younger kids being bundled into a carriage with the words “Saint Christopher’s Orphanage” on the side. There was nothing you could do, there were at least 4 men with the carriage and what looked like a nun inside. Orphanages could be horrible places, you knew the stories, but you knew these kids were too young to survive on their own yet. Maybe in a few years.

Sighing, you picked up your bag, slipped away from the commotion and headed back into Valentine. You were close when it started raining; at first, it was refreshing; that day had been hot. But it wasn’t long before you were soaked to the bone and shivering. As you reached the edge of Valentine, you tried the doors of a few sheds and outhouses only to find them locked. You headed for one place you knew would be dry, warm, and had a broken backdoor – the stables. You quietly slipped in the back, seen only by a couple of horses; they gave a soft whinny and snorted as you crept past into an empty stall. It was a risky place to sleep, but no-one should be in again until the morning, and you’d be long gone by then.

It didn’t take long for you to start to doze off – if life on the streets had given you one thing, it was the ability to fall asleep quickly in the strangest places. You’d only been there, nestled in the warmth of the hay, for half an hour when suddenly you were awoken by an extremely angry, red-faced, pot belly man screaming in your face.

“What do you think you’re doing in here?! You planning on robbing me eh? Sleeping here so you can wake up in the middle of nights and steal my hard earned money?! I should kill you, you little rat!” 

He grabbed you by the front of your shirt, lifting you off the ground, and threw you to the floor again. You scrambled to your feet and were going to try and grab for your bag until you saw the barrels of a shotgun levelled at your face. You didn’t even bother trying to reason with the man; he was drunk, you could smell it, and obviously a lunatic. You launched yourself at the front stable doors, praying they were open. They were, and you stumbled as you slammed through them, just as the spray of a shot hit the wall next to you. You landed face first in the mud, and tried to get to your feet, slipping, as a kick bowled you over onto your back.

“You’re going to die you little thief!” 

The man was barely able to stand as he pointed the gun at your head, but he was so close it wouldn’t matter. You heard footsteps behind you, thumping, running, when suddenly the fat red-faced man was floored with the hardest punch you’d ever seen.

“God dammit.” You heard some muffled swearing above you as the man who’d intervened shook his fist out – that punch must have hurt. Wait, is that….

“Arthur! What the hell you doin’?”

“Just, err, having a discussion with the stable owner about this kid, Lenny.”

“Some discussion Arthur! Come on, we best get out of here, the Sherriff’s already pissed at us after the saloon incident earlier.”

Arthur held out his hand and helped you up. “Kid, I reckon you should come with us. Looks like you need a place to sleep, and one where you won’t wake up with a gun pointed at ya.”

You had no idea what to do. You didn’t know these men, but he had saved you, and he had been kind to you earlier.

“I…thanks Mr Morgan.”

“Come on then, you can ride with me.” Arthur and Lenny turned, walking quickly towards their horses. They turned when they heard your footsteps sprinting off towards the stable.  

“Oh for god’s sake…” Arthur groaned, then sighed and shook his head. He was just about to turn back to his horse when he saw you re-emerge carrying your bag. He smiled as you ran towards him, then hoisted you up behind the saddle.

“Hold on tight kid, me and Lenny been havin’ a few at the saloon so this might not be the smoothest ride. And if I start singing, don’t laugh.” You clung to Arthur’s jacket as you cantered out of town, heading south.

—-

A few months later, and you were settling into gang life well. Your first night had been…. interesting to say the least. Arthur had sat you by the fire, leaving the girls to fuss over you, as he went to talk to Hosea and Dutch. Dutch thought the whole situation was hilarious; his stray was now bringing home its own strays. Hosea had been less keen, mostly because he was concerned about dragging another young soul into this life. But, at the end of the day, there had been no real resistance to you staying.

Arthur had immediately taken you under his wing and did his best to teach you how to survive. You’d never shot a bow or gun before, but Arthur took you out to practice with bottles and cans, and even bought you your own varmint rifle so you could go out hunting with him and Charles. Hosea and Karen were big fans of yours; or, more specifically, your skills as a pickpocket while they distracted a mark.

Arthur didn’t like you assisting like this though; him and Dutch frequently argued about it. You constantly asked him to take you on other jobs, but he always said no, always a different excuse. You didn’t really understand why Arthur was so protective; you weren’t his kid. It irritated you, but you probably owed Arthur your life, so most of the time you kept your mouth shut.

You were bored, re-wrapping the handle of your knife by the fire one evening when you overheard Arthur and Javier talking.

“I’ve got a good tip, Arthur. This old man has got a stash of cash hidden in his house, not far from here. We go now, in the dark, we can be in and out without anyone seeing, easy.”

“Sounds good Javier, let’s get goin’.”

“Arthur, I want to go.” You’d barely thought the words before they were out of your mouth.

“Huh. Come on (Y/N), you know that ain’t gonna happen.”

“Please Arthur! It’s not like a bank job or something, it’s sneaking, you know I’m good at that!” you said as you stood up.

“(Y/N), NO. This ain’t good for a kid. I ain’t risking it.” Arthur was more forceful this time and pushed you back down into your seat before walking off towards his tent.

You then did something you hadn’t done since your parents died; appealed to a higher authority. It used to be your mum; now, it was Dutch.

“Dutch, I want to go on the job with Javier and Arthur. Please can I go?”

Dutch chuckled. “Sure child, I’ve been wondering when you’d finally ask to go. Arthur said you felt you weren’t ready.”

Urgh. Arthur. So all that stuff about ‘Dutch says no’ was rubbish then.

“I am ready Dutch, I’ll make you proud.”

“Well you better hurry up then, before they leave!” Grinning, you ran to your tent and grabbed your things, before jogging over to Arthur and Javier.

“Arthur, Dutch says I’m to come.” Arthur sighed, looking over at Dutch, who nodded. He didn’t have the time to argue.

“Fine. Get on the damn horse then”.

The journey didn’t take long, and soon you were hitching the horses in the trees just outside the perimeter of the homestead. The three of you crept into the small barn next to the house.

“(Y/N), you stay in the barn and keep watch. You see anyone movin’, you whistle like Charles taught you. You got that?”

“But Arthur!”

“No buts, I ain’t in the mood. You shouldn’t be here, and I ain’t puttin’ you in harms way. I’ve lost a kid before, I ain’t losing you too.” This surprised you; you hadn’t heard Arthur mention any other kid apart from Jack, you weren’t sure who he meant.

“Javier, you check the other barn, I’ll take the house, we’ll meet back here.” You’d already pushed your luck being here, and you didn’t want to annoy Arthur further, so you reluctantly agreed.

“Fine.” As Arthur and Javier crept towards the house, you climbed the ladder into the small loft in the barn. At least you were away from the camp, and maybe, just maybe, Arthur may let you come on another job if you behaved.  

You waited for what felt like ages before you saw Arthur running quietly, keeping low, back towards the barn. From your vantage point in the loft, you didn’t see the man with the shotgun creeping up the side of the barn. Neither did Arthur.

“You thieving bastard.” Arthur had his hands up as the man backed him slowly into the barn.

“Hey, mister, I ain’t thieving, I’m with the Sherriff, he’d heard of some cattle rustlin’ up here and he told me to check it out.” The ease of Arthur’s lie impressed you; he was always treated just as Dutch’s enforcer, but sometimes he sounded more like Hosea. 

Panicking, you desperately looked around for anything you could use to help, maybe create a distraction. The homeowner was standing almost directly under the ladder now. Your frantic gaze settled on the small hay bale at the edge of the loft. As quietly as you could you crept over to it, then pushed with all your might.

“Yer a dirty liar mister. I’m going to shoot you right here, and let the Sheriffs deal with ya in the…..”

His sentence was caught short as the haybale slammed into his head, knocking him out. The haybale fell forwards, knocking Arthur onto his back.

“You alright?” you called down to Arthur.

Staying exactly where he’d fallen, Arthur sighed, then groaned a reply. 

“Sure. Thank you.”  
  



End file.
